Use those opposable thumbs for eye-rubbing, my child, so you may drift away from such structured compositions and be led to the discovery of yourself.

Then you can sit quietly, as a stone in the valley would, a fisherman on the riverbank, a coyote.

Soon, the fantasia of all creation shall nourish your nerves, itch between your toes and at the base of your fingers.

The language of living, the dialect of days and nights passing will reinvent you, reshape you, while raindrops rebound off your skin – skittering up and away as musical notes – in muddy organic euphoric medicinal reverence.


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